[KQ] stonewall

DEIMOS Delivered from the blasts He took his time from the back, maneuvering into and within the crevice, slippery, slimy conjectures beneath the soles of his shoes, a threat in and amongst itself; without the pressing claws, the sinking knives of darkness (and he knew shadows intimately, like old friends, but not this sort of abyss, the kind of Stygian anchor wrapped around one’s chest). The river might’ve continued to flow in here, filling in every nook and cranny, seeking low spots and holes, circumventing its power over and over again. He thought, well beyond, were the faint echoes again, calls and cries for help; bewitching, obliterating, pulling against the tide, the sole reason they were all here – striving to seek out those who yearned for asylum. An outcry, a shout of Remi’s name echoed from ahead, from the girl Phoebe, and he moved, drawn to swift action because he was there for protection, arms and munition, slaughter and devastation when required. He was meticulous in his thundering forward, machinations remembering the slick surface, the pitfalls and puddles just enough to be another trial and tribulation. But he was flowing in blind animosity, simply following the sounds of thuds and shouts, Wessex lunging forward too, forces in masse, and he presumed she’d have better eyesight, she’d be able to view the thing, flickering behind her, the warrior with senses made for closed quarters. The problem of unknown confines and stabbing blindly wove its way through the current crisis: he could concoct a series of things, but all of them would be at risk when he couldn’t see, when he couldn’t judge, when he couldn’t truly ascertain. Precision and control had always been skills he proudly possessed, and there were always an interval of options; his magic, his sword, his knives, his hands. So he reached forward as best he could, near Wessex, near Remi, near whatever eluded them in the space of crag and crevasse, struggling to lay his fingers on foe instead of friends. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t even have to think about it: death and mauling, lacerations and injuries, combining his military efforts into warrior ministrations, stabbing, stabbing, stabbing. But there were others to consider, not just himself, not just this unfamiliar object in the dark. What else could he do? The moments for his calculations swiftly ended, and he breathed, dared to try and compose accuracy, precise, measured. Then there was a muted glow pulsing from his right hand, emanating, a dagger pulsing and pervading, created from his invocations, before proceeding with a single onslaught, aiming, intending, to drive the keen edge into the adversary’s flesh. And all along, he begged and pleaded in the pervading madness, in the shadowed interludes: not them, not them, not them, don’t hit them. ------ Deimos rushes forward, hopefully beside Wessex, trying to get a feel for the tentacle. When he thinks he’s found it, he creates a dagger and tries to stab it. the last of a line of lasts